


If

by Ishti



Series: New Quest [7]
Category: Aveyond
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 13:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13412082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishti/pseuds/Ishti





	If

Her bare feet stomp and pound the wooden table below her. Voices from either side whistle and crow, off-beat and out of tune, the words to a sea shanty she's known by heart since she was thirteen. She claps along as she dances ever forward, her skirts swishing, brushing the ruddy faces of rum-happy patrons.

 _"And the lass, she loves me, through and through_  
_Whether I be straight or in the stew_  
_She's a comfort, and her breast is, too,_  
_but she ain't got nothin' on my good! old! crew!"_

The sailors howl and laugh, and the disembodied whine of the fiddle plays a bridge into another tune. She keeps the rhythm with her feet. Men call for more ale from the bar, and more food; she doesn't worry about it, because this is where she's wanted right now. Someone else will take care of the tavern guests this time.

They don't cheer because she's handsome, or because she's sensuous. They don't cheer for her money or her attention. They cheer because they love her. She could dance forever.

It's a simple tavern, all stained wood and iron fittings. The occasional window looks out over a cloudless day, sun shining on white sand lapped by turquoise waters. Warm light bathes the scuffed floors inside. At her feet, the table creaks and groans. By all known laws of physics, she guesses, this table shouldn't hold up under the hammering fists, the plates piled high with greasy food, and the weight of her own body--but it does, extending as far as she can see in either direction, and it's beautiful.

She makes them so happy, and that makes her the richest woman alive.

She dances on, and the fiddle is joined by a walloping drum. The sailors cheer together, louder, and begin to sing, _"Ai dee dai dee dai dee dai, yai dee dai dee dai!"_ She doesn't recall the chorus to this one, but it'll come to her, and it's an easy enough beat for dancing.

Or, it would be, had she not at long last found the edge of the table.

_Time to get serious._

She stops after one final spin and walks, instead, to the table's end. She halts there for just a second. Ten feet beyond the edge is a door.

Absently, she strokes her chin. There's ocean beyond that door, an ocean full of travelers and lost folk without hope or aid. She wishes she could take them all in to her snug alehouse, that she could cure their ills the easy way.

She jumps to the floor, and her bare feet hit the ground with a dull thud, barely audible over the roar of the sailors behind her. They'll miss her, but not too much, she hopes--she's built enough, left enough behind to keep her guests content.

_The others aren't waiting. They don't always come for you. Do you think they ever truly want you there?_

She shrugs and steps forward.

_You may be about to waste your time, you know._

"That's fine." She drums her fingernails on the doorknob. "I'll be there if they need me."


End file.
